


Invisible Violence

by Lucenthia



Category: South Park
Genre: Action/Adventure, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucenthia/pseuds/Lucenthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christophe has been working with Gregory for years as an undercover agent, doing the dirty work for Gregory's father. But when he and Gregory gets sent to Denver to investigate a spree of murders, his beliefs and resolve are tested until the end. With the help of Wendy, the three children draw closer to a hidden murderer in the city, where they hope to stop the murderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invisible Violence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theshadowswhisper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshadowswhisper/gifts).



“Christophe! Grab your coat, we’re leaving.”

“No.”

“For Christ’s sake, man, I’ve been telling you for days. Why aren’t you packed?”

“Couldn’t be fucked.”

“I thought you’d be glad to finally  _get owt of zees fucking sheethole.”_

Christophe sat up from his bed to glare at Gregory, who seemed to think that he had done a good impersonation. No one got his accent. Everyone thought it was weird and twisted, but that was just because they were idiots. Christophe’s voice was completely normal, it was the snobbish brits with their  _Doctor Who_ and fucking homoerotic  _Sherlock_  who always talked weird. With all their  _loos_ instead of a plain old shithole. With  _supper_ instead of dinner.

But nooooo, no one liked the French because they couldn’t be bothered to actually understand it. They watched the fucking production of  _Les Miserables_ , aptly named because it was a miserable travesty of a play, and thought they understood what France was.

Yes, Christophe had watched suffered through it, because he lost a bet with Gregory. Apparently, the queen was real and did actually exist.

“Father’s chauffer’s at the door, come on!” Gregory tried to yank Christophe off the bed, but got kicked back. Gregory was terrible at anything physical, that was why he had Christophe. Gregory had the money, Christophe had the brains. Anyone could see that, but they always thought it was Gregory who had the brains, just because he had long words.

“Ugh, fine.” Christophe agilely jumped up and out the window, landing on the car Greg’s father had sent. He was satisfied to see a dent in the thing.

“Aren’t you going to take any of your stuff?” Gregory called out the window. Christophe ignored him and got into the car, propping his feet on the headrest of the seat in front. He waited until Greg came out the door and into the car before saying, “Everything in there isn’t worth dog shit.”

“Maps? War movies? Schoolwork?”

“Why the fuck would I need schoolwork, the toilet paper in your place is always free.”

The car started up, and Christophe counted the minutes until they got to Heathrow and finally left this god-forsaken island. Meanwhile, Greg’s voice droned on in that  _ridiculous_  accent of his. “We’re thirteen now, and yes, father funds us to be his secret agents and everything, but we still need to keep up with school.”

“Yes, please tell me how knowing what a demonimator is can help your  _daddy_.”

“It’s a denominator, Christophe, and we learnt that five years ago.”

“It’s a demonimator because Math is a tool from the devil himself.” Christophe huffed. He unslung his shovel from behind his back and checked it was working. It was the only thing he needed, everything else could be gotten on a moments notice, courtesy of Greg’s  _daddy_.

But this shovel… it was made of titanium alloy, perfectly weighted with a sharp edge on the end of the shovel. The handle had been varnished and waxed by Christophe himself, and it could detach itself for a pickaxe and a hammer. He had also hollowed out the shaft to store bullets for his handgun that was always provided when they arrived at their destination. Greg preferred a sniper rifle, but was a decent shot as well.

“Anyways, since you probably weren’t listening the last two hundred times,” Greg said, “We’re going to Colorado.”

“What!?” Christophe yelled, “Why the fuck are we going to that shithole of a country?”

“Everywhere’s a shithole to you,” Greg said, “Get a better vocabulary, would you?”

“Anyways,” Greg continued before Christophe could protest, “We’re going over there because someone’s been killing off my father’s associates in Denver. He has a big operation down there.”

That got Christophe’s attention. Finally! No more fucking around in smelly London or worse, Scotland. Christophe shuddered. People had no right to say his accent was hard to understand when people like the Scottish existed, who sounded like their throats were twisted in a figure of eight.

Gregory’s father was doing important stuff, not that Christophe cared, and Gregory and Christophe had been stuck stealing things and even on surveillance, like they were  _guard dogs_. They didn’t lick the heels of fucking masters, they didn’t just watch people without  _doing_ anything to them.

“Now, some of my father’s associates are rich and weren’t guarded at all.” Gregory was saying, “And my father thinks they’ve made one enemy too many. It shouldn’t be anything too dangerous, but we’re to investigate and neutralize the killings.”

Christophe nodded happily. Now, this was what he loved. That and deep cover infiltration, but it was no fun dragging Gregory through that. He’d moan and whine so much guards would either think they were having sex or one of them was a ghost.

“So where are we staying? You’ve got us a place in this city?” The good thing about working with some English rich-kid was getting good accommodation whenever they worked. Daddy had to take care of his little kid, no?

“Actually, you’ve been there before. You’re going back to South Park.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. There was no way in heaven, hell, or England that he was going back to  _fucking_ South Park. Not where some fat bastard straight from that stupid Austin Powers movie called him an Englishman. Where some Jew would yell at him with as much grace as Satan did when he fell from heaven. Not where his  _mother_  still lived and thought he was some nice innocent child was on some exchange programme in Europe.

“I am not going to some American mountain with more snow than air, and with politicians so stupid not even your  _parliament_  can compete. What if we get hypothermia? What if we get shot? What if America declares war on China?” Christophe folded his arms around his chest, as the car slid into a parking spot outside Heathrow.

Greg rolled his eyes and started to get out of the car. “Stop being so paranoid.”

“Paranoia’s a good thing, you pussy, it keeps you alive.”

“Look, this is actual work.” Greg said, “We’re chasing killers, for Christ sake, how many times have we gotten to do that? And think of shoveling snow instead of dirt, when was the last time you did that?”

“When we were in fucking  _Scotland_ where the men wear skirts, and I dug a hole to take a shit.”

“We were in a house the entire time!”

“I will not sit on a toilet that has housed thousands of hairy Scottish asses.” Christophe humped, “You might lower your standards to take shits with your enemies, but us French actually have pride.”

Greg was obviously used to Christophe and just got out of the car to unload his bag. Neither of them brought much, and anything illegal, which was to say a lot, was provided when they got there. Christophe hoped he’d get to use a Desert Eagle. He had gotten one once when he and Greg had gone on a trip to Algeria, with black people that actually spoke French, the language of grace and beauty. The recoil had dislocated Christophe’s entire arm, but it was worth it to see the wooden target explode into splinters. One splinter even hit Greg, which was a bonus.

Without looking back at Christophe, Greg walked into Heathrow and was lost in the crowd. Christophe grunted and sat in the car for several seconds, folding his arms in front of him. He looked over and didn’t see Greg anywhere. He tried to wait for a few minutes, fiddling with his shovel, but the car didn’t move and Greg didn’t show up.

Grumbling curses about the arrogant English, Christophe took apart his shovel, got out of the car, and kicked the door closed as hard as he could. He trudged over to the check-in counter, stuffing his only possession into Greg’s backpack so the authorities didn’t try to take it from him again. The last time they tried that Greg had to bribe the officials. If he tried that in America he’d get thrown in jail because of their terrorism paranoia. Honestly, if they weren’t such dicks, they wouldn’t have Arabs suicide bombing them in the first place.

Greg didn’t look surprised, and smugly handed Christophe his boarding pass, and they breezed past security, starting their trip back to South Park.

 

* * *

 

“So remind me, why the fuck are we staying in South Park?” The two boys were sitting in a car as badly insulated as a silk dress that Christophe had played target practice with.

“In the past, father’s agents have always had intel for us.” Gregory said, “We always had simple missions. Espionage, surveillance, protection, none of them needed much planning. But now we’re doing detective work, and it requires knowledge of Denver. So, I reached out to an old friend in South Park, with whom we’ll be staying with.”

“Old friend? You were too much of a little bitch to make friends four years ago. Who is it?”

“You’ll find out,” Gregory looked out the window and saw the lights of South Park shine dully into the night. “We’re almost there.”

Ten minutes later, the two boys got out of the car, and Christophe instantly started shivering from the wind. It was  _winter_  of fuck’s sake, why did they have to come now? At least they had gone to Scotland in the autumn. Greg held out his scarf to Christophe, which he knew would stink of Greg’s soap. Christophe had heightened senses, and knew Greg’s habits inside-out. And it was because of his constant vigilance that he knew something was up with Greg. His shoulders were hunched, and not just because of the wind. And he didn’t usually lend Christophe clothing.

When Christophe didn’t accept the scarf and gestured impatiently to the door, Greg shrugged and rang the doorbell. The door was immediately answered by their host, as if whoever it was had been waiting by the door already, and the two were quickly ushered up a set of stairs into a room.

It was  _pink_.

That was the first thing that hit Christophe. Then he coughed from the perfumes on a table opposite the door that made maggot-infested cutlet smell inviting. Turning to glare at Greg, he noticed a  _Cirque du Soleil_ poster on the door. “What the  _fuck_ are you doing bringing us in with a girl!?”

“Wendy has proven herself reliable, and I’ve used her to do the odd bit of research on other mission.” Greg said, “She’s already started doing research on the case.”

“And why do we need this idiot around?” The new girl asked Greg with obvious distaste. “Look’s like he’s a bigoted misogynist who can’t even speak English.” The girl was a little shorter than Greg, with long black hair and a scowl on a round face. Just like her room, her clothes were pink. She wore a pink t-shirt and red jeans that hugged an ass that probably manipulated idiots like Greg.

“And you look like some stuck-up feminist who can’t speak French, so fuck you.” Christophe gave her the finger as he spoke.

“I’ll have you know that I’m proud to be a feminist,” The new girl, Wendy, retorted, “It’s because of men like you that our government’s in such shambles. Feminists fight for equality, respect, and-“

“Oooh, you raise awareness for abortion, give the bitch a medal.” Christophe sneered, “What have you actually done, huh? Gone around and changed laws yet?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Wendy said, “I persuaded the mayor to eject the KKK from South Park, and-“

“Good job, you moved some idiots over to Denver, give this girl the Noble Peace Prize.”

“It’s No _bel_.” Gregory said, stepping between them. “And you two don’t have to get along, but you  _will_ work together. He looked only at Christophe as he talked. Christophe folded his arms and looked away. “Fine, but if this girl fucks us over, she is  _dead_.”

“Thank you.” Greg said, “Now, Wendy, what have you found?”

“I think I know who’s doing the killings.” Wendy said. Christophe snorted in disgust. No  _way_ she knew already. She was probably just doing it to impress…

“Wait just a fucking moment.” Christophe yelled at Greg, “I know  _exactly_  why you ‘hired’ her. This is the girl you had your eye on the last time we were here. Why the  _fuck_ are you letting your dick get in the way of the mission?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “This isn’t the first time Wendy and I have met, you know. But I assure you there’s nothing going on between us.”

“Dumped you for the Marsh musclehead?” Christophe sneered.

“Actually, I’m not going out with Stan anymore.” Wendy said in a steely voice. She stepped forward and looked at Christophe in the eye. One of the reasons why Christophe was called The Mole was because he was short, and Wendy stood an inch taller than him. She was a little intimidating, but Christophe would rather bend over to a psychopathic Welsh sheepherder than admit that.

“Oh yeah? Broke the hearts of two boys before you hit your teens.” Christophe smirked, “I can see why you’re so reliable.”

Greg tried to step in but Wendy waved him off. “Stan’s caring, but he can’t see past his own face, and things just won’t work out. He was going through a Goth stage, and that just brought out the worst in him. So I stopped enabling him.”

“So you dumped his heart into the incinerator and walked away?” Christophe sneered, “Was my mother-“

“Enough about your mother issues,” Gregory said. “I know you have the tendency to be territorial, but this is a different case.”

Christophe opened his mouth to continue, but Greg glared at him, and it forced him back down into his seat. His  _pink_  seat. Wendy smiled at Gregory before pulling up her laptop. “Jay Lombardo, Boris Levins, Denis Harrison, and Richard Barnes. These were the four men killed in Denver. Officially, they’re all businessmen that deal with assets overseas. That’s already a warning sign that they’re doing something illegal.”

“My father wouldn’t do that,” Gregory said, “He needed them to raise funds, but he wouldn’t knowingly associate with people like that.”

“Well, he was, whether he knew or not.” Wendy said, “I got Kyle to help me dig around, and he found out they were all involved in arms dealing and money laundering.”

Greg nodded, and Christophe felt sorry for the kid. He’d never said one bad word against his  _daddy_ , and suddenly Wendy was all but saying that his dad was doing some dirty business. The kid was so stupid he thought his dad didn’t even know. Well, money had to come from somewhere, didn’t it?

Wendy was still talking. Some details about the crime scenes and the way they’d been killed. “All were done with a baton or swords, no guns. That means whoever’s doing it doesn’t have access to guns, which means he’s a small-timer taking on big fish.”

“You said you knew who did it?” Gregory asked.

“Well, it’s a theory, but everything fits.” Wendy said, “Do you remember Kenny McCormick?”

Gregory shook his head, and Wendy continued, “In class, when he comes, he’s unobtrusive, only known from perving on girls, giving and receiving handjobs, and being from the poorest family in town. But he’s something more. Kyle told me that he has another persona, Mysterion.”

“What kind of stupid name is that?” Christophe butted in, “ Does he think he’s some superhero?”

“That’s actually how it started.” Wendy said, “Kyle told me it started when they started playing superheroes as kids. But Kenny’s taken it further. He turns in the vandals and hoodlums in South Park, but he’s been gone for a few months now. He dropped out of school, and his family hadn’t seen him either. I think he’s moved to the big city and doing his Mysterion thing there.”

“You think Kenny McCormick, a thirteen year old boy, assassinated four grown men?” Gregory asked. He sounded skeptical, and Christophe was glad that Gregory wasn’t believing everything his ex-girlfriend said like an eager puppy.

“It’s a start.” Wendy said, “Anyways, I was wondering if we could move into Denver. It’s an hour drive between here and the city, and it’s inconvenient. Kyle will be staying here but helping us on the technological end.”

“Wait, we’re getting someone  _else_ mixed up in this as well?” Christophe said with disbelief, “How public do we want this? Girls gossip all the fucking time, are we gonna get the police involved too? Why not invite the national guard with their paranoia and guard dogs?”

“Kyle’s kept Kenny’s secret for years,” Wendy said, “And he won’t even be in Denver. It’ll just be us three.”

“You were complaining about being here in South Park,” Gregory cut in, “I don’t see why you’re complaining about going to Denver.”

“I do want to get out of this little town shoved up a mountain’s ass, I just don’t want to bring  _her_ along.”

“Well, we are. Tough luck, Mole.” Greg only used Christophe’s nickname when he was genuinely irritated, and Christophe shut up grumpily. Gregory turned to Wendy and said, “Are we leaving now?”

“I told my parents I was doing some research in the big library,” Wendy said, “It’s the winter break, so they’ll let me go for a few days.”

“Alright then, the car we came in is still outside, we can go in that.” Gregory said.

“You can drive?” Wendy asked.

“Yes, father taught us only a few months ago. But he failed Christophe because he kept on running over dogs and cats.”

“Hey, they got in my way, not their fault.”

“You swerved to run that golden retriever over in Highgate.”

“Stupid thing shouldn’t have been on the road.”

“It wasn’t! You crashed!”

“Hmph, details. It’s just because you English drive on the wrong side of the road to begin with.”

Gregory threw up his hands and walked out of the room. Wendy glared at Christophe and followed him. They drove to Denver in icy silence, aided by the frost that was building inside the car. Christophe kept glancing in the rearview mirror at Wendy, whose face was calm and pristine like a politician. Even her coat was pink, and her round cheeks were flushed with cold. Christophe didn’t trust her. He wouldn’t trust her, especially because Greg did. Putting his legs on the dashboard, Christophe fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Are you serious? This is the fucking plan?”

They had arrived in Denver in the middle of the night, shivered themselves asleep for a few hours, and now they were eating pancakes in IHOP.

“It’s the best we have, since the police don’t have any leads.” Greg was saying. Christophe couldn’t fucking do this. It was 6 AM, the sun wasn’t even up yet in this dark and gloomy land, and already they were talking stupid plans that would get them killed.

“We’re just going to walk around this huge city and hope that someone notices this fancy-dress retard? Why are you doing this? Did we do this in Algeria? Scotland? No, we did things professionally. Now when this little girl comes in, you’re doing it her way?”

“If you can think of a better way to catch McCormick, then I’m all ears,” Greg said, “But until you do, we’re doing it Wendy’s way.”

Christophe shot daggers at Wendy, who took them calmly and turned to Gregory. “All four of your father’s associates were taken down during the same time, and in their homes. They’re spread out over a few months, which is also the time Kenny’s been gone. It’s obvious he’s staying in Denver, because no one’s seen him in South Park, but we need to find out where.”

“So we’re going to ask these poorhouses to see if they know where the kid is?”

“Kenny’s poor, he can’t have access to hideouts like we do.” Wendy said, “And we don’t have anything else to go on.”

So, the three of them split up and each went to different homeless shelters over the city. Christophe was glad to be rid of the perfectionist bitch, but couldn’t believe the price was asking homeless shelter after shelter if they had seen some blondie.

All of them turned him down, and the last one even threatened him. He gave each shelter the middle finger, told them they could kiss his ass if they were rich enough, and stalked off.

By the end of the day, Christophe was pissed  _off_. This was shitty detective work. No chasing criminals, no firefights, just asking the same questions about wanting some thirteen year old blondie. Why did everyone chase him off?

The three of them met up at the IHOP for dinner, and Christophe unceremoniously dug into a pile of pancakes, doing his best to splatter Wendy with any residue. She ate her pancakes with a dainty knife and fork, same as Greg. Neither of them understood the joy of stuffing food into your mouth with your hands.

“I didn’t find anything,” Greg was saying, “What about you?”

“Those fucking volunteers are beasts,” Christophe mumbled, “They kept on chasing me away, talked about calling the cops. What am I, black?”

“Did you tell them to fuck themselves with a broken arrow shaft again?” Greg asked, “I told you-“

“I didn’t until they told me to get the fuck out.” Christophe protested, “I did what you said, asked questions about a thirteen year old blondie.”

Greg stared at him for a few seconds. “Repeat what you said to the shelter volunteers, word for word.”

“Can’t remember what I said to those ungrateful dickheads, but it was something like ‘I’m looking for a blond boy thirteen years old, he might be hiding out in one of these shelters.’ What’s wrong?”

Greg and Wendy both had the same expressions of wanting to fall asleep and never wake to Christophe’s voice. They held their faces in the hands and just looked at their pancakes.

“Christophe, it sounded like you wanted to rape the kid.” Greg said, “It’s no wonder they chased you away.”

“What the  _fuck!?_ ” Christophe yelled, earning a glare from the nearest waitress, “What kind of fucked up country is this? Who does that kind of thing?”

“Plenty.”

Christophe looked over at Wendy, who had spat out the word with venom and hatred. It fell heavy through the air and silenced Christophe and Gregory both. “There are millions of people who exploit people, sexually, emotionally, and for labour. Your beloved France is no better, so don’t get all arrogant with your misdirected patriotism. The world’s an ugly place, and you’d best learn that if you want to keep up this work.”

“Um, Wendy, are you alright?” Greg tried to lay a hand on Wendy’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off violently. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I had success in my search. Some of the people here know me, and one of the homeless said he saw a blond kid staying there from November 12th to 27th.”

“That’s the exact time between the murder of Levins and Barnes.” Gregory said, “You think he stays in a different shelter in between each of his murders?”

“It would make sense,” Wendy said, “We just need to keep on scouring the shelters here, there can only be so many.”

“Right, I sent you a list of my father’s other associates that might be targeted,” Gregory said, “Do you think there’s a pattern between the killings?”

“Not that I can see,” Wendy said, “I suppose watching all of them is out of the question.”

“Well, we could watch just three until they get targeted,” Christophe suggested, It’d be easier that way.”

“Father wants us to neutralize the threat as quickly as possible.” Greg replied, “No, we need to find McCormick.” He opened his mouth but his phone rang. It was a satellite phone and could work in any country, almost anywhere. He answered it, and his face went pale. He nodded a few times and said, “I promise, we’re doing all the work we can, father.” “Yes, yes, I understand.”

He set down his phone and looked gravely at them both. “Another one of my father’s associates has just been killed.”

 

* * *

 

“I swear to god, if you screw this up I’ll screw you.”

“Didn’t know you were capable, French boy, can you even get your dick up?”

Christophe was almost impressed. When Wendy wasn’t trying to be a goody politician, she had balls. More than that pussy, Greg, anyways. Christophe disliked her less when she was like this.

“Maybe I haven’t spread my legs as much as you, slut, but I assure you I can get an erection that puts most men to shame.”

Wendy raised an eyebrow, but stopped talking, which was probably for the best. It was two ‘o clock at night. Christophe was covered up in a thick coat he had stolen from some rich bastard in an uptown café, and had even stolen one for Greg. Unfortunately, it was now on Wendy’s shoulders. They were about to sneak into the crime scene and take a look, but Greg, being smart for once, had chosen not to try and run around the city, lined with frost. He’d probably sprain a toe and crack his head open.

What had been one of his  _stupidest_  ideas had been to send Wendy with him.

_“I do not work with fucking girls.”_ Christophe had said,  _“What if the police come? What if we get seen and think we’re black? You think I’m going to stay and protect her when she fucks everything up?”_

But Greg had been caught in the charms of Wendy’s tits, and didn’t listen to Christophe. He  _never_  listened to Christophe now. It was always what Wendy did, what that bitch told him to do. She was becoming the new brains of the operation. And Christophe didn’t like it one bit. If Greg ever got it into his blond English head that Wendy might be a permanent thing, Christophe swore he’d use his shovel to brain the girl, then use it again to dig her grave.

“Okay, girlie, let’s see if you can keep up.” Christophe said, “This guy got killed in his fourth floor apartment. No good going through the lift, because there’s a cop on duty. We’re climbing through the window over there. And if you fall-“

Christophe fell silent as Wendy dashed up the drainpipe. She pulled herself up onto the fire escape and vaulted up onto the third floor. Grabbing onto the windowsill of the building they were breaking into, she ground her boot against the rough brick to gain purchase and slowly pushed up until she stood thirty feet in the air.

Christophe grunted. She showed off her ass way too much when climbing, like she was a stripper. She couldn’t stop being hot even when they were doing an important mission. Typical girl.

He pulled himself up the same way Wendy did, squeezing up onto the same ledge she was. His balance shook, and Wendy grabbed him, fearing he might fall. Christophe shook off the hand. It was probably just another way to seduce him.

Shaking his head, he unlatched his shovel from behind his back and pried open the window. He wasn’t concerned about any alarms. Years of casing out houses and buildings had given Christophe an ability to recognize which windows had alarm systems and which didn’t. Getting in was child’s play.

They crept into the room and quickly found the crime scene. It wasn’t hard to find. The blood hadn’t been washed off yet, and it was easy to see where the victim had bled out. Judging from the blood spatters whoever had done the murder had used a knife. Such idiots. Why get up close when you could just blow their brains out from afar? Traces would be left. Still, DNA sampling was the job of the police. Greg had assured him that his  _daddy_  would get him any information the pigs dug up.

But what made Christophe grin in anticipation wasn’t the body, though that was already exciting. No, what made Christophe step forward and actually consider  _thanking_  the English brat who got him here was painted on the wall with the victim’s blood.

A huge question mark gaped at the two of them. Someone had tried to clean it off, but it was still clear against the wall. It was a metre tall and was now brown, and Christophe wondered why the murderer had decided to paint a huge question mark for the cops.

Or maybe it was for them.

The corpse had been removed, but he and Wendy checked the rest of the apartment. “You can see his vase knocked down.” Wendy whispered, “He must have answered the door, then backed up before he was killed.”

No need to state the obvious. Christophe would have figured that out anyways. He glared at Wendy, but she ignored him. They spent a few more minutes in the apartment but found nothing. Christophe beckoned to the window and Wendy clambered out, quickly shimmying down the drainpipe. Taking a look down, Christophe made sure Wendy was watching before he jumped down, rolling so he didn’t break his legs.

“Why did you do that, you could have injured yourself.” Wendy grumbled, walking past Christophe.

Christophe would have a bit of limp, but admitting that would be as painful as staying in a hippie encampment ensnared by LSD. The duo walked quickly across the dark streets, but Christophe noticed there were a few too many people skulking in alleyways, and heard the scuffle of footsteps. No one snuck up on him. No one got around The Mole. These were amateurs, five of them to be exact. And they were getting closer.

“We’re being followed.” Christophe hissed. Wendy stiffened, but didn’t look around. That was good, Christophe had been ready to slap her if she’d done something that stupid. “We run, then pick them off in the alleys, got it, woman?”

Wendy nodded. She and Christophe both had weapons. Christophe had his trusty shovel for short range, and the weight of his handgun rested nicely on his hip. He also knew Wendy had a baton and pepper spray. She’d be able to hold off anyone until Christophe could come in and finish them off.

“Now!” Christophe hissed, and the duo ran across the road and disappeared around the corner of a block. A lamppost clanged loudly from a silenced bullet. Running even faster, Christophe vaulted over a fence and into a dark alleyway, loading his gun and keeping his finger on the trigger. Part of him wanted someone to pop up in front of him. Something inside wanted to shoot.

Wendy was keeping up easily, but several sets of footsteps echoed around them. “Climb!” Christophe whispered. Wendy nodded and started clambering up a drainpipe, but before she got past the second story, two men came running from both sides of the alleys with guns loaded and trained on them.

“Not another step up, missy.” One of the guys said. He looked like a huge muscled wrestler that you saw on those bullshit WWE TV shows. Christophe couldn’t believe anyone watched something that qualified as  _worst stage production since the use of live ammunition in Le Riviere Rouge._

Next to Muscle was another man with a shotgun pointing at them. Shotgun chuckled and said, “The killer always returns to the crime scene.”

“Wait, you fucktards think  _we’re_  the killers? We’re trying to catch them. You got a bullet casing in that eye of yours?”

“You’re the one who’ll have bullets in them,” Muscle said, and the other three laughed, “And we’ll use your blood to paint a nice little warning to anyone else with you.”

“For the last fucking time, it wasn’t-“

Four shots rang out. Christophe jumped up the wall faster than a cat and raised his sidearm, but four bodies had dropped to the ground. Wendy, from god knows where, had gotten herself a gun and had shot all four men in the chest. They groaned and tried to get up. Obviously they had body armour on. But Christophe and Wendy shot all four of them in the head and looked at each other in confusion.

“Fuck, we gotta get out of here,” Christophe said, “We didn’t leave any traces, not here or at the crime scene.” That was a bonus to wearing gloves and a facemask. Maybe that was why Greg always wore that gay little scarf. “We’ll be fine so long we lay low.”

Wendy nodded, and they both climbed to the top of the building behind them. This one was only five stories, and they managed it easily. Christophe was glad to see that he had been faster than Wendy. Thankfully, no one followed them on their way back, and they met up with Greg without any problem. It was in a McDonald’s this time. Fast food restaurants in America grew like fungus in a sailor’s armpit, and Greg insisted it was a hiding place no one would think to look in.

Greg was actually sleeping in the car when Wendy and Christophe got there. God and his cocksucking angels alone knew how Greg could sleep in subzero temperatures. Celcius, not farenheit, because only the fucking Americans still used the imperial system.  _Fuck_ the imperial system, it gave Christophe headaches just trying to think about yards, bushels, and farenheit.

After rapping the glass sharply and dragging Greg out of the car, Christophe explained to him what happened. Wendy corrected him whenever he mentioned too many thugs, or a firefight that didn’t quite happen. When they were done, Greg asked, “Are you still willing to work with Wendy after this?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You said that if something went belly-up, you’d never work with her again.”

“Fuck that. I guess…” He glared at Wendy, “I guess she’s okay.”

“Excellent.” Greg said with a wan smile. “Sorry, mate, it’s just that father’s on my case about not getting work done. I just want him to be happy, you understand.”

“I understand you’re a big pussy who needs to grow a pair.” Christophe grunted. Greg was used to him saying that, and he didn’t mind. But Christophe actually believed what he said. Greg needed to get away from his precious  _daddy_  before his whole world came crashing down.

Wendy stepped in when it was clear the two of them had finished talking. “It was Kenny. We saw his mark on the wall, a huge question mark drawn in the victim’s blood.”

Greg looked uncomfortable. “This McCormick child seems dangerous.”

“He is,” Wendy said, “He’s had years of experience climbing up and down buildings, fighting criminals, and he’s onto us now.”

“What makes you say that?”

“None of the other crime scenes had a mark drawn up, but this one did.” Wendy said, “It came just as we started investigating. Kenny knows, and he’s challenging us. He’s telling us that we can’t do shit to him.”

“So this means more of my father’s associates are in danger.” Greg said, “McCormick will be wanting to kill more and more of them to set us on edge, to show us we can’t do anything to him.”

“That’s right,” Wendy said, “And he’ll keep on doing it until no one’s left unless we find him and bring him to justice.”

Greg nodded. “Alright, you two get some rest. I’ll contact father and tell him what we know. Do we have anymore leads on McCormick?”

“The police are better equipped than we are,” Wendy said, “Just wait until they get the information and make it available to your father.”

Greg nodded again and stepped back into the car, plopping down in a seat and wrapping himself in his coat. Christophe stood outside with Wendy, watching her take out her phone and start typing. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sending Kyle a list of the potential victims, and having him search up their crimes,” Wendy said, “Maybe Kenny’s targeting people who work in a certain area first, or maybe he’s ignoring a certain type of occupation. Anything that helps us narrow down where Kenny might be next.”

“What if this isn’t the point.” Christophe muttered, his mind working. His mind worked differently from the  _careful_ and  _proper_ way of the English. Greg’s mind worked step by step, always logically, always following his  _daddy’s_ orders. But Christophe’s mind jumped about quickly from one idea to another. Greg called it paranoia. Christophe called him a dickmuncher. Paranoia kept him alive.

But one idea now sprang into mind. “What if this is all some distraction?” He asked, “This Mystery fucker, he never got this obvious before. Why is he only doing it now?”

“He’s probably wanting to make a big impression,” Wendy shrugged, “He was always a bit of a drama queen.”

Christophe nodded, but wouldn’t give up. Once he got onto an idea, he didn’t let go. Greg had said that dogs did that, but Christophe was  _not_ a dog. When a  _dog_ got onto something, it either licked it to death or tore it apart. And Christophe would rather die than let a dog get near him.

Something else occurred to him, and he asked, “Where did you get that gun? You shoot okay for a girl.”

“Yeah, I do.” Wendy said, “Too bad you couldn’t show off your French specialty of surrendering.”

“Hey, we French do not  _fucking_ surrender.” Christophe hissed, “You wanna go and see just how much a I surrender, girlie?” He got out his shovel and twirled it into his hand.

“Looks like someone’s obsessed with a bit of wood,” Wendy smirked, “You sure it’s not to compensate for something.”

Christophe tried to glare at Wendy for a second, but then burst out laughing. Dirty jokes were the key to his soul, and Wendy had a bucket of them. Wendy smiled too, and they leaned against the frost covered car for a moment, drinking in each other’s company.

“You know,” Christophe said, “When I first saw you, I was jealous.” He looked at Wendy, who was staring straight ahead and not looking at him until he was done. “I thought Greg had fallen for your tits, and now he’d replace me with you.” Wendy still didn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“There’s not much to say.” Wendy shrugged, “You were jealous, and now you’re not. It’s not your intentions that matter, it’s the result.”

“Go talk to Greg, he’ll have you in some deep discussion about what the meaning of life is, and what morality is or some shit. Those British always think they’re right.”

Wendy laughed. “Everyone thinks they’re right. It’s not just the British.”

Christophe nodded. He looked up at Wendy again and actually looked at her. Not thinking she was a girl who Greg had fallen for, or some bitch that would take his place. He looked at her. Her smile was distant, like she was already dreaming of something. Greg used to have that spark in him, but it had faded after working under his  _daddy’s_  orders for years. He had lost the drive that Wendy had. But beneath her smile was steel. Christophe had thought it was just bitchiness, but he knew now that it was resolve, and whatever Wendy was dreaming, she was capable of getting.

He looked at the ground and grunted. “I’m fucking cold. Let’s try and sleep.”

Wendy nodded and the three children slept fitfully in the car until morning came, then slept some more.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, girlie.” Christophe looked around furtively to make sure Greg wasn’t looking around.

“What?”

“I want Kyle’s number.”

“I’m not giving you a number that you can prank call with. Kyle’s a good friend of mine.”

“I’m not going to do a fucking prank call, I never do that kind of shit.”

“You prank called the French head of police on a traceable phone.”

“Greg fucking  _told_ you that?” Christophe threw his hands up. “Look, I just want him to search up a few new leads that I might have.”

“You have a new lead?” Wendy raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

“I don’t need to share this with some girl, got it?” Christophe glared up at Wendy for emphasis.

“Maybe I’ll tell Gregory about your new lead, see if you want to tell him.” Wendy answered, and actually started walking into the Wal-Mart aisle where Greg was hiding out in.

“Okay, okay, you bitch, fine.” Christophe growled, clutching Wendy’s arm. She threw it off immediately and shoved him back. “Don’t touch me.”

“Fine, someone’s a little touchy.” Christophe grinned and waited for the pun to sink in. Wendy just glared at him. “Okay, okay, I want to look up Greg’s dad.”

Wendy blinked. “Why?”

“Just curious, okay? Not like I could do it before, could I?”

“Okay, I’ll ask Kyle to search him up as well, see what he can get. I’ll give him your number to reply to.”

Christophe nodded and turned away, wondering what the fuck Greg was doing. They had woken up an hour before noon, all of them tired by their nighttime escapade, and Greg had gotten a text from his father to meet a man in Wal-Mart. They had all come armed, and he and Wendy were watching Greg from the other end of the  _female health_  section. Just being here reminded how many fluids a female squeezed out. Thank god he didn’t bleed to death once a month.

“Christophe! Over there!” Wendy grabbed his arm and pointed into the crowd leaving the huge store. Christophe still didn’t understand why Americans needed everything to be so big. The country was big, the people were huge, and so were the markets.

“What is it?”

“I think I saw Kenny.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I think so. He just passed through that aisle.”

“You sure now, you’re not just jumpy?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Christophe. Wendy dashed over a few more aisle and pointed. “That one in the blue jacket and blond hair.”

“Don’t point, you stupid girl, what if he sees?” Christophe hissed, “The guy who just walked past the  _packaged death_  section is our killer?”

“It’s  _instant foods_  and, yes, it’s him.” Wendy walked forward quickly, but shook her head. “He’s gone out the door, we can’t follow him in time.”

“Only because you Americans are so fucking fat and block the way.” Christophe grumbled, “Great, now this dress-up murderer is following us, and we lost him.”

“We already suspected he was following us,” Wendy murmured, keeping her eyes on Gregory, “Now we know for certain.”

“That’s not all, you stupid girl,” Christophe growled, “That dick followed us here, which means he heard whatever Greg was being told by his  _daddy_.” He shook his arms like he always did when he was agitated. It gave him the illusion that he was digging, which was always so calming and fulfilling. You were uprooting the earth, the very planet that sustained you. Why did no one else see this? Greg could be so stupid sometimes.

“We would have seen him if he tried to approach Gregory,” Wendy said, “Besides, how would he hear what was going on in this crowd?”

The girl had a point, but Christophe wouldn’t admit it. Besides, paranoia was always healthy. It kept him alive. He hunched his shoulders and looked around for anyone else suspicious. Apart from the ridiculous mall cop giving them stares, the coast was clear.

“What are you lot looking jumpy for?” Greg asked. He had just come back and looked discouraged. Christophe had never seen Greg like this. Sure, he was a pussy, which Christophe took pains to remind him in case he forgot, but he was never sad. He never looked like some kicked dog.

“We saw Kenny.” Wendy said, “He was following us.”

“What?” Greg asked, stepping forward, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Wendy cut in, “It was definitely him.”

“I don’t remember you being so certain when he was walking around.” Christophe sneered, almost in reflex. Opposing Wendy was something that was enjoyable. He liked it when she grew a pair of balls and didn’t just agree with what Greg said.

“I recognize him, alright?” Wendy said, “I’ve been around him for years. But it doesn’t matter, he left before we could tail him. What did your father’s lackey say?”

“He’s giving us a week until he pulls us out and sends in more agents,” Greg said. He sighed, “I don’t like failing. It feels like I’m letting down father.”

“Why did your dad send you in anyways?” Wendy asked, “It seems cruel to send in kids as spies with guns and everything.”

“Father’s always trusted me.” Greg said, “He knows what I’m capable of, and he’s given me responsibility. It’s not something many people have done, I must admit.”

Wendy frowned, but didn’t say anything. Greg sighed and said, “Well, what do we do next?”

“I was wondering whether your dad had operations in other parts of America.” Wendy said, “Kenny could be trying to take down your dad’s entire operation, and he might be killing people in descending order of importance in your father’s grand scheme of things.”

Greg nodded slowly. “I can get you a list of all my father’s contacts. Father didn’t give me this information, but I’ve pieced together most of it.”

Wendy nodded. “Okay, thanks. How long do you think it’ll take to get it to my laptop?”

“I’ll need a few hours with Wifi. I’ll meet you back in the car at four. I don’t want father to know that I disobeyed him.”

“Aw, is the poor posh English boy afraid of his big bad  _daddy_?” Christophe laughed.

“At least I don’t have mother-abandonment issues,” Greg snapped back. “Look, this is important, alright? I’ve never let down my father like this before. Just stop, got it?” He stalked off before Christophe could say anything and was lost in the crowd.

What the fuck was wrong with everyone. Everything seemed to go wrong the day they set foot in fucking America. They had never argued. Sure, Greg had got pissed off by him, but that was normal. Christophe always pissed Greg off because he needed to learn to show some balls and stand up to Christophe. Now, Greg was pissed off at himself, because he thought he failed. And like a pussy, couldn’t admit that.

_FUCK_

Wendy put a hand on his shoulder, and he shook it off. “Fuck off, you cunt.”

The bitch drew back shocked, and Christophe glared at her. “Is this what you wanted? Huh? You want to see that I’m pathetic? That neither of us can do jack shit, because you’re so incredible? Just  _fuck OFF_!”

He was drawing stares from the people around him now. They whispered, but he could hear, he could always hear, what they were saying. They thought they were going out. They thought he was her  _goddamned_ boyfriend! How dare they judge him? How dare Greg’s fucking  _daddy_  make someone as mild and innocent as Greg feel like that?

Christophe was seeing red as he glared at Wendy, who was definitely  _NOT_ his girlfriend. Why would they think that? Why would anyone think that? She was smart, beautiful and strong. She’d never be tied down by anyone. She was intense, and God help anyone who got caught in her path.

Even now, she wasn’t scared. She just stared at him like he was being a docile dog. Why was she even there? Why had Greg brought her in? They could have done all the research she had. What had her theory about Kenny done? They had gotten nowhere, and now Greg was blaming himself and thought he was pathetic because he couldn’t obey his  _daddy_. Well fuck everyone for making Greg think he was pathetic, when he was the smartest guy Christophe had ever seen.

They had met five years ago when they were eight. Greg had been dragged along by his dad to experience  _the cold and hardships of more unfortunate folk_ , and Greg had seen Christophe out in his yard digging his own grave. Christophe had realized his mother had tried to abort him, and was digging his own grave to lie in, so he wouldn’t bother her anymore.

_“What are you doing? Trying to make a garden?”_  Greg had said, as he was walking along the empty road.

_“I’m digging my grave, what does it look like, retard?”_ Christophe had said as he panted. He had been digging for a long time.

_“I’m not mentally challenged,”_ Greg had said,  _“In fact, I came top of my class in-“_

_“Just shut up, I don’t need to hear how perfect you are, and how much of a genius you are.”_

_“Well, that’s not very nice,”_ Greg had said,  _“But do you want help?”_

_“What? You wanna kill me?”_

_“No, of course not.”_ Greg said,  _“But I just think it’s awfully unfair if no one helps you dig. It looks like hard work.”_

_“Dying is always hard work. It was so hard my mother couldn’t do it when she tried to kill me with a clothes hanger.”_

_“Why did she want to kill you?”_ Greg had walked up to where Christophe was digging and looked down into the hole. He had looked scared of the worms that were crawling in the dirt.

_“Because she believes in God, and God is cruel and unforgiving.”_ Christophe had spat.  _“He’s a cold hearted murderer who sucks dick for a living.”_

Greg had giggled at Christophe swearing, something Christophe didn’t understand. He had learnt naughty words when he was five, but apparently Greg hadn’t. He had spent the day accusing God of acts most prostitutes didn’t even do, and taught Greg what a prostitute was, along with all the other curses. Christophe hadn’t known if Greg had listened much, since he was rolling around on the ground laughing like a little baby.

After a few hours, Greg’s  _daddy_  had come and left with Greg. Christophe stopped digging a grave after that. Instead, it had become the location of treasure, or a huge tunnel to France, or a fortress against the Canadians. Greg had come over every day, and they alternated between digging, throwing mud at each other, and Greg tentatively trying new swear words. His innocence had made Christophe laugh. All the English seemed so  _polite_  and  _nice_ , so it was good that at least one child wasn’t being corrupted by  _Oh, how do you do_ , and  _Now, you must listen to what my dear aunty has to say_.

Then Greg’s  _daddy_  had moved again after three months in South Park, and Christophe hadn’t seen Greg for months. There had been one time where he dreamt Greg had returned, got him caught up in  _La Resistance_  against their mothers, and he had died being ripped apart by guard dogs.

That had been a fucking creepy dream. But then when Christophe was nine, his mother had gotten a call that his son had been accepted for a scholarship in England, and he was being picked up by a limousine, with her consent of course. She naturally gave it, and Christophe didn’t know whether to hate her for sending him off to the cursed island in the middle of the sea, or to love her for finally getting him away from her. But he didn’t have a choice, and Christophe was packed onto the glorious limousine and taken to Denver Airport, where he took a direct flight to Heathrow.

There he saw Greg, who had explained to him that the scholarship story was all bullshit. Well, he said,  _a fabrication_ , but Christophe had worked on saving Greg from being a pompous douche. That was when they had become a team for Greg’s  _daddy_. Greg was being sent undercover, and had requested Christophe as a partner. Christophe never questioned why he had been chosen, or what he had been fighting for. The years that followed with Greg had been the best years of his life. Up until now.

He looked around him and saw that he was in some alleyway with a homeless guy looking up at him hopefully. How the fuck had he gotten here? Last thing he remembered was shouting at Wendy in the oversized and overpriced Wal-mart. Oh, right, Greg thought he was fucking useless. Greg always did, because his dear  _daddy_  made him think that.  _That_ was why he used Greg. It wasn’t because no one suspected children, and it wasn’t because Greg was smart and brave, far braver than any of his other agents that looked like the bad guys from the Matrix movies, and were just as stupid.

It was because Greg would follow his  _daddy_  no matter what. Even if he was treated like shit, he would follow. He was a puppy. He was a little dog, and Christophe  _HATED_ dogs.

He kept on walking, thinking about what he had said to Wendy. He shouldn’t have said it. Wendy didn’t know what was going on, but that didn’t mean he had to kick her like that. Groaning, he started walking back to the car where Wendy would be waiting for Greg to finish writing down his  _daddy’s_ network in America. He thought back to what he said about Kenny not making any sense. Why would he deliberately get attention like this? This kid had them all dancing in his palm. He knew exactly what they were doing, and they couldn’t lay a finger on his shadow. So why was he giving them clues now? Why was he making them run faster? How much did this Kenny know, and how much was planned?

Christophe kicked the wall in frustration, and his steel tipped boots chipped off a chunk of old concrete. He would probably have to apologize to Wendy and Greg. He hated doing it, because it meant they needed to hear it from him. And if they needed to be told he was sorry, then they were falling apart. He and Greg never apologized to each other because they knew the other didn’t need it. But if Greg needed reassurance then he was losing himself.

Grumbling, Christophe found his way back to the car, but no one was there. Greg was probably sulking somewhere as he noted down the contacts Wendy wanted, but where was that stupid girl? Christophe jumped up and down as a chill wind cut through his coat. Why was he always being fucked around with. Did God find some entertainment in his suffering?

Christophe got in the car and sat in the back, trying not to shiver too much as the winds of Denver did its best to make sure he got hypothermia and died of exposure.

It was three when Wendy tapped on the car window. Christophe looked up quickly and got out. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Clearing my mind,” Wendy said. They looked at each other, an awkward silence stretching between them. Suddenly, Wendy smiled. “Good.”

“What?”

“You didn’t try and apologize. Good.”

“How is that good? Greg would say it’s  _bad manners._ ” Christophe accentuated the last two words with air quotes.

“It’s not your intentions that matter, it’s the result.” Wendy said, “You came back, and you regret what you did. It doesn’t matter what happened before.”

Why couldn’t all girls be this simple? Only the present mattered, not the past. Why could no other girl realize that nothing Christophe did had some sneaky ulterior motive? He wasn’t a smarmy Englishman after all.

“I got you what you wanted.” Wendy said after another silence. She took out her laptop, opened it, and gave it to Christophe. “It’s not complete, but it’s all Kyle was comfortable getting.”

“What’s this?”

“You wanted to search up Greg’s dad, didn’t you?” Wendy said, “Well there it is, an impression of the shadow of Louis Yardale’s schemes. Bear in mind this is very incomplete. Kyle didn’t want to get caught so he didn’t go in too deep.”

Christophe looked at the computer and saw a bunch of words he didn’t recognize and a spreadsheet that seemed to blur into one block of black numbers. “What the fuck does this say?”

“Well, first of all, it says that Louis Yardale makes three quarters of his income illegally.” Wendy said, “Secondly, it also says he has connections in all of Great Britain, Ireland, France, Algeria, and Morocco. He’s now extending his reach to America, or at least presenting himself as a valuable ally.”

“Who is this ally?” Christophe hissed. So, Greg’s dad was a crook. It made sense. Who else would send kids in to do surveillance and spying? Who else would arm his son with a gun?

“I don’t know,” Wendy said, “Kyle pulled out after he got an idea of where Yardale’s power stretched, and the amount of money he was pulling.” Wendy’s voice took on a harder and vicious tone. “I don’t blame him. People like Yardale are ruthless. They’d exploit Kyle and every one of his friends and family. They know no mercy.”

“Sounds like you’re glad this superhero’s killing them.”

“Someone needs to take a stand,” Wendy said, “People are oblivious to the slavery that’s happening beneath their noses, and someone needs to take them on.”

“So you justify killing?”

“It’s not the intentions that matter, it’s the result.” Wendy repeated, “If the result is that less people are terrorized, then yes, I commend Kenny for what he’s doing.”

“Well, best not tell Greg all this.” Christophe said, “He’s already weak enough as it is, telling him his  _daddy_  is a crook would probably make him commit suicide.”

“You’re right,” Wendy said, “We’ll keep this secret.”

“Let’s get back into the car,” Christophe said, “It’s freezing.”

Wendy nodded, and they bundled into the shitty car Greg’s  _daddy_  had seen fit to lend them. The heating was shit, and Christophe let Wendy be much closer to him than normal, given the arctic apocalypse God seemed determined to bring upon them.

“What do you normally do?” Christophe asked, “I mean, I’m guessing you don’t do this kind of shit all the time.”

“You’d be surprised,” Wendy smirked. “South Park is very weird.”

“Oh yeah? How weird does it get?”

“Well, once Kanye West came to our school because we insulted his wife.” Wendy said, “Oh, and there was this time where we had someone try to assassinate an egg.”

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what that was about,” Wendy laughed, “Something to do with gay marriage.”

“Someone tried to assassinate an egg because of gay marriage?” Christophe asked, “I thought the English were stupid.”

“Our government shut itself down because half of the government didn’t want to play ball with the president.” Wendy said, “I don’t think the Englishmen can compete.”

“Okay, it’s official. Americans are the stupidest people on the planet.”

“Sometimes it seems that way,” Wendy said, “That’s why I’m such a vocal feminist. There’s just so much gone wrong with the world, and I think the best way to combat that is to promote equality.”

“You know, I think you’re pretty fucking special.” Christophe said, “You fight for so much even though you never get anywhere.”

“You have to believe in something.”

“If God exists, then he’s an asshole.” Christophe spat, “Fuck that, he has his head stuck up his ass, and someone needs to take his head out and replace it with my boot.”

“I don’t mean God or anything like that,” Wendy said, “I’m agnostic myself. But I mean we need to have something to aspire to. I believe that when humans are presented with good, they’ll take it. That’s why I fight. I believe that it’s possible to succeed.”

“Fuck all that,” Christophe said. He dug in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes he’d been saving up. He had forgotten about it because of all that had happened, but now seemed to be a good time to do so. He felt the familiar burning sensation run through his chest, and he relaxed. “You don’t need anything romantic or some shit like that to live.”

“Agree to disagree, I guess.” Wendy said, “Like we agree to disagree about your smoking.”

“I like smoking,” Christophe huffed. “Maybe if you tried it, you’d be a little warmer.”

“I’ll pass on getting cancer at fifteen.” Wendy said. “See? Agree to disagree, right?”

“I guess.” Christophe puffed out more smoke that filled the car. Wendy wrinkled her nose, but he didn’t care.

“Sometimes I think that if the world could do that, then everyone would be a lot better off.”

Christophe shrugged, and kept on smoking. Before long, his cigarette was out, and he was about to reach for another when Wendy slapped his hand. “If you do that, I’ll open the window and we’ll both freeze.”

“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

“I’m choking as it is, no more cigarettes.”

“What happened to  _agree to disagree_  and all that shit.”

“I was agreeing to disagree about your smoking habits, not about you giving me cancer from your second hand smoke.” Wendy snatched the pack of cigarettes from Christophe. “No more smoking in the car.”

Christophe grumbled but didn’t refuse. Wendy was warm enough, he supposed. Besides, he was falling asleep again. He’d gotten five hours of fragmented sleep last night in between shivering his balls off, which was passable, but throwing tantrums took a lot of energy.

So, when Greg came trudging back to the car at precisely five ‘o clock, he saw Christophe and Wendy leaning on each other in the car, sleeping peacefully and exhaling small puffs of air in a steady stream.

 

* * *

 

Christophe woke the next morning, thinking he had a hangover. He had a headache, he was shivering, and he could barely remember what had happened last night.

Oh, and the car was in an industrial sector of the city. Waking up with no clue about his location sucked. At least Greg was in the car as well. But Wendy wasn’t. Shit. What the fuck happened last night? Did he get slipped some memory drug?

Greg was waking up at the same time. “What the hell happened last night?”

Christophe shrugged. He remembered talking about Greg’s dad, then falling asleep…

Holy shit, what the fuck happened last night. Did he get roofied? Raped? Was Wendy pregnant? Jesus holy Christ with a cross up his ass, what the  _fuck_ went on? Greg groaned and he said, “I remember waking you both up and giving Wendy my father’s contacts all over America, then we went to a Burger King for dinner.”

Things were coming back to Christophe now. He had yelled at Greg for waking him up, glared as Greg was clearly holding back laughter and making pathetic innuendos. They had gone to a Burger King, where Christophe had refused to eat cow balls and pig brains that made their ways into the slabs of grease the scam artists served.

And then…

What the actual  _hell_  had happened? And where was Wendy? Greg couldn’t think of anything either. He reached into his pockets and took out his phone. He gasped and dropped the phone, which Christophe picked up and looked at.  _Carney Grace was killed this afternoon. I am pulling you out tomorrow if you have not stopped the threat._

Greg was shaking slightly and Christophe grabbed him by both of his shoulders. Looking into Greg’s blue eyes, he said, “Hey. We can still do this, okay?”

“But what if I can’t? We haven’t gotten any closer the past few days, and now Wendy’s gone. She was our only link into this mystery. McCormick’s killing even quicker now, because he’s confident. He knows we don’t have a blind shot in hell of catching him.”

“We’ll find Wendy,” Christophe said, “And we’ll see if this fucking McCormick kid left any traces in this crime scene. He’s been killing more and more quickly. First it was four in a month, now it’s two in half a week. Fuckers like him always get cocky and leave traces.”

“But he’s been following us, taunting us,” Greg protested, “He knows where we’ll be, where we are. It’s like he’s right next to us and we never know it.”

“Fuck that, do you see him? Is he invisible?” Christophe asked, “He’s a fucking kid, just like us, but we have training. We’ll catch him, then you’ll make you _daddy_ proud like you’ve always wanted, got it?”

Greg started to calm down, and he mumbled, “You need to stop smoking. I can smell it on your breath.”

Christophe rolled his eyes. “You just don’t know the feeling. One day you’ll start smoking, and I’ll be laughing at you because you didn’t find out sooner.”

“One day you’ll get lung cancer, and I’ll be laughing at you as you slowly die.” Greg shot back. That was when Christophe knew Greg was better. If there was anyone Greg had the slightest chance of standing up to, it was his old friend, Christophe.

Suddenly, Greg’s phone rang again. It was from an unknown number, but it was obviously Wendy. It said,  _I have a new lead on Kenny. Meet me at the following address._

Below was an address with more numbers Christophe knew nothing of. A quick search by Greg showed that it was a large apartment building in Denver, half an hour’s drive away. The two of them changed direction and started driving towards the apartment, while Christophe’s mind was working overtime. He was paranoid, yes, but now he was doubting Wendy. Did she have something to do with last night? Was she trying to undermine Greg because she thought his dad was a scumbag while catching Kenny at the same time?

No, this was the Wendy who Christophe had opened up to, something only Greg had been able to do. Christophe felt relaxed around Wendy, and even almost liked her. Maybe as much as Greg. Why the  _fuck_ was he doubting Wendy at a time like this? This was the time when they needed to stick together.

Christophe couldn’t help but feel nervous for some reason. There was a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he felt like he was being watched. He felt like he had been watched the entire time he had been in Denver, playing into Kenny McCormick’s hand. Kenny knew exactly where they would be and what they were doing. Nothing was in his control anymore.

They reached the apartment and Wendy immediately emerged from behind a car on the other side of the street. As she walked over, Christophe noticed how different she was. Or maybe she was always like that and only hid it under her politician act. She strode confidently but angrily towards the car, eyes darting across the road, on the roofs and windows of the building, and around Greg and Christophe. She reached them with a few long strides and asked, “What do you two remember of last night?”

Christophe and Greg just shrugged. “I’m not sure, Wendy. Christophe and I remember having dinner in Burger King, then we blanked out. I just remember waking up in the car an hour or so ago.”

“I remember the Burger King, and then I was remember walking through some alleyway at midnight.” Wendy said, “I felt like I was running away from someone, but I can’t remember who.”

“Were you assaulted?” Greg asked tensely, “Are you alright? The streets aren’t safe at midnight, you know.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Wendy smiled bitterly, and Christophe remembered what she had said only two days ago.  _The world’s an ugly place, and you’d best learn that if you want to keep up this work._ God help anyone who tried to touch Wendy.

“Anyways, you called us here because you thought you had another lead?” Greg asked, trying to be business-like. He liked pretending to be a nice grown-up when he was pissed. It made him feel more secure. Again, it was stupid, as Christophe had pointed out multiple times, but Greg never listened.

“Yes, I think it might have something to do with the latest murder.” Wendy said, “I don’t know why Kenny tried to kill two of your father’s associates in less than a week, but he left a vital clue here.”

Greg nodded and got out of the car. Christophe eyed Wendy suspiciously but didn’t say anything. He was just being paranoid, that was all. Wendy was close to catching the McCormick Mysterion fucker. That was why she had changed so drastically. She was worried that two murders had occurred in the space of two days, nothing wrong about that.

 She was passionate about death. She actually believed and fought for something. She was so different from the two boys. Greg didn’t fight, he served. And Christophe just went along for the ride.

_You have to believe in something._ Well, Wendy did believe. She believed in her cause, whatever it was. Christophe had seen it whenever Wendy got intense about something. Like the time the two of them were in an alleyway and she shot those four thugs like they were wooden targets.

He had never figured out where the hell she had gotten the gun. He knew any jealous idiot could get a gun and shoot a whole classroom, but he’d have thought Wendy would’ve mentioned it to Greg or Christophe. But McCormick was dangerous, and if they were chasing up a new lead, it was good that she was armed. Kenny had killed two men in two days, and Wendy knew it.

_FUCK!_

It hit him so hard he bent over gasping. Tears ran into his eyes, and he gripped the handle of his shovel so hard he felt like a vein had popped.

Why. Why, why, WHY!?

Christophe hefted his beloved shovel and remembered how Wendy had teased him about it.  _You’re sure it’s not to compensate for something?_ Fuck. Christophe kicked the car door open and ran as fast as he could into the hotel, running everything through his head.

Shit, shit, SHIT,  _SHIT!_

Wendy knew that Kenny had killed someone again, but Greg had gotten the message barely an hour ago. How could Wendy have known, unless Wendy was working with McCormick? No, even worse, what if Kenny McCormick had never set foot in Denver?

_It’s like he’s right next to us and we never know it._ Maybe the killer had always been right next to them. From the day they set foot in Denver.

Who had implanted the idea of Kenny’s guilt into their heads the minute they set foot in South Park?

Who had assured them that Kenny had not been seen for months?

Who had found  “proof” that Kenny had been seen throughout Denver?

Who had been right next to both of them and been able to predict their every move?

Who had shown skill and determination to become a vigilante?

Who had gotten information of Louis Yardale’s operation in America from his very own son?

Who had won Christophe’s trust?

Who had won Christophe’s admiration?

_FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!_

Christophe was running as fast as he could up the apartment stairs. He had seen where the lift had stopped, and Wendy had stopped on the sixth floor. God knows why she had chosen that floor, but Christophe was glad he didn’t have to run any further. He pounded up the stairs so fast he felt like his legs would burst, just like his head and heart had when he realized what Wendy had done. How could they have been so  _BLIND!?_ How could neither of them realize what fools they were being?

_“I’m guessing you don’t do this shit all the time.”_

_“You’d be surprised…”_

Why, why, why, why, WHY, WHY,  _WHY!?_

Christophe burst out of the fire escape door just in time to hear a gunshot. He sprinted in the direction of the sound that echoed like a tolling bell in a cathedral, and saw a door that lay ajar. He kicked it open and saw Wendy standing over Greg’s body, which was staining the ground red from a hole in his head.

_Dying’s always hard work._

How wrong he’d been back when he had first met Greg and was trying to dig his own grave. Dying was so easy and life was so fragile. Greg was dead. He had been fucking shot by Wendy in the back of his head, where his blond hair was colored bright red. There was so much blood, so much _fucking_ blood.

Wendy looked at Christophe, gauging the threat. That was all Christophe was to her. A threat. Christophe wanted to run at Wendy, to bash her brains in with his shovel again and again until her blood mixed with Greg’s. But he wanted to know why. He wanted to know why Wendy had killed Greg.

“So you figured it out?” Wendy asked, “What gave me away?”

“You knew about the newest killing,” Christophe said, “We only found out an hour ago.”

Wendy let out a short laugh. “All that deception, and I messed up with one slip of the tongue. Guess I need a lot more practice.”

“Was anything you ever said real?” Christophe asked, “Was Kenny even a real person?”

“Kenny’s real,” Wendy said, “In fact, he might even be in Denver. I vaguely remember chasing him, and I had two bullets missing the next day.

“Why did he come? Are you two fuckers in it together?”

“He probably came because I was too obvious. I suppose I shouldn’t have used his symbol, the question mark. It got his attention and made him track us down.” How could Wendy be talking about this so clinically? Greg’s blood had now soaked her boots, staining her own shoes red. It would be incriminating. But Christophe didn’t care whether she got off free or got life imprisonment. He wanted to know things. He wanted to know if any of what they had done was worth it.

“How long were you planning this? Did you start this whole thing knowing you would get Greg’s attention? Did you plan his death the moment he came asking you for help?”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t plan anything.” Wendy said, “I killed Yardale’s associates because they exploited people, but I didn’t know they were connected. It was a surprise when Gregory contacted me last week and told me he was investigating my murders.”

“So you came up with the plan to frame Kenny.” Christophe growled, “You came up with the idea to have us chase ghosts while you kept on pumping Greg for info. And then when you got what you needed, when you manipulated him into getting you his  _daddy’s_  contacts, you KILLED him!”

Wendy nodded slowly. She didn’t apologize because she wasn’t that kind of girl. She didn’t think what she was doing was wrong.  _Someone needs to take a stand… Yes, I commend Kenny… They know no mercy…_ That time the two of them had been ambushed in the alley, one of the thugs had said they were the killers. No, he had said,  _not another step, missy_. He had been talking to Wendy, because she  _had_  been the killer. And she had shot them before they could say anything else.

“How long have you been doing this? How many people have you been killing for some fucked up sense of  _justice_!?”

I only started a year ago.” Wendy said, “It was when I discovered that no one cares what girls say. When I discovered that the louder you yell, the less people listen. When I discovered what a fucked up place this world was.” She looked at the floor in anger, and Christophe realized that this was the true Wendy. She was bitter and angry, but she channeled that anger into murderous intent.

“There wasn’t any moment where I realized all this at once,” Wendy continued, “It was a gradual acceptance. No matter how vocal I was, no one listens to a feminist. They think we’re making a big fuss over nothing. They think we’re just being  _bitchy_  and  _PMSing_. It was only a year ago, when I realized that people only paid attention to you when you show cleavage, that I started.”

“How did it feel?” Christophe asked. He was no longer furious. He wasn’t seeing red. Now he was just entranced and dreaming. This couldn’t be happening. This kind of shit never happened in real life.

“Glorious.” Wendy said, shattering Christophe’s hopes that Wendy could be saved. “I finally felt like I was making a difference. In one night I had done more than all of my speeches, research, and awareness events had ever accomplished. I knew I had found my calling.”

“You’re insane.” Christophe whispered, “You think you’re some angel, some tool of God. I thought I could save you.”

“For someone who hates God, you talk about him a lot.” Wendy smirked, “And you think I need saving? I’m the one helping people. I thought you’d understand, Christophe. Greg was blind and only followed his father. But I thought I could save you from being a follower. I thought I could show you the right way.”

Mentioning Greg brought back Christophe’s fury. His hands had probably stiffened by now. He had stopped bleeding anyways. “You fucking idiots! You both think you’re right! ‘I’m helping daddy for the greater good!’ ‘I’m on a fucking massacre for the greater good!’ And where the fuck does it leave me, huh?” Christophe used his hands to draw massive air-quotes in the air. “You both think you’re right, you both think you’re doing what’s right, but what the fuck are either of you doing?”

“Greg didn’t think he was-“

“Don’t you  _FUCKING_ tell me what Greg thought.” Christophe yelled, “Greg was honest and too much like an angel for his own FUCKING GOOD. He never knew about his _daddy’s_ plans. He never knew jack SHIT! And you killed him just because of who his father was.”

“He would have only continued Yardale’s work.”

“No, he wouldn’t have.” Christophe said, “He wanted to change things for the better. He only wanted to please people. He just chose the wrong people to worship.”

“It’s not my intentions that matter, it’s the result.” Wendy said, “The result is that Yardale’s plans are ruined. I have the information of every contact in America. It’ll take some time, but I can track them down, blaming everything on Kenny.”

“You’d kill an innocent kid you grew up with just for your own ambitions?”

“It’s the results that matter, how many times do I need to say it?” Wendy asked, “If the price of taking down rapists, extortionists, and who knows what else, Kenny’s life is worth it.”

“And what about me? Is my life worth it?”

“Yes.” Wendy said the one word without hesitation.

“I thought there was something between us.” Christophe whispered, “I thought you actually cared about me.”

“You were a colleague of a Yardale, nothing more.” Wendy said, “You were the enemy the moments I laid eyes on you.”

“What about when you told me about Greg’s  _daddy_? What about when we talked about agreeing to disagree? What about the time you told me about your very own ideals? Not the flowery bullshit you talk about with Greg, but how you were willing to kill and all that. Not even when I fell asleep on your shoulder?”

“You made me want to save you,” Wendy sighed, “But you rejected the offer I gave you.”

“So that was all our friendship was, huh? An offer for me to be a crazy bitch and kill for revenge?”

“I’m not killing for revenge, I’m killing-“

“There is no justice! Get that into your fucked up heads. No right, no wrong. Did Greg think he was doing wrong? Who thinks you’re right, apart from you?”

“Of course people have different ideas of what’s wrong. But I know I’m right and they’re wrong. And so are you.”

She raised her arm and fired. Christophe spun to one side on instinct, causing the bullet to punch through his right shoulder. He crashed into the wall, screaming as wave after wave of hot pain pounded through his head. He couldn’t lift his arm, and looked up in terror as Wendy stood over him, her cold eyes staring straight through Christophe. She was a completely different person now. This wasn’t the star student she showed everyone, and this wasn’t even the determined fighter she had shown Christophe. This was Wendy, and she was a brutal killer.

“Wendy…” Christophe mumbled Wendy’s name for the first time, causing Wendy to stop in her tracks. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re a liability.” Wendy said as she stepped forward, “You know who I am and how I operate. I can’t allow you to live.”

She stepped forward again and looked at the ground. “If it’s worth anything, I won’t forget you. Ever.”

She looked up again, only to see Christophe charging at her with his shovel in his left hand while his right hand hung limply by his side. Her eyes widened in shock, and she raised her gun to fire at Christophe’s chest. Christophe was expecting this and stumbled to one side, causing his right shoulder to explode in pain again as he was shot in the same area. Roaring in anger as his body seemed to explode in agony, he barged into Wendy, causing her to stumble back in pain. Before she could raise her arm to aim again, Christophe raised his shovel with the side of him that wasn’t sending flames ripping through his tendons and brought it down on Wendy’s arm.

His shovel hit true, and Wendy grunted in pain as she dropped the gun. She immediately spun around and kicked Christophe hard in the place where she had shot him, and he fell to the ground howling in pain. His heart seemed to be exploding in his chest as it tried to pump as much blood as it could out the bullet wounds. Waves upon waves of agony flashed through his body. He was growing dizzy, and Wendy focused and faded in his vision. She stood over him and seemed to look at him forever. Or maybe that was just how it felt. His body wasn’t responding, even his legs, and it was an effort just to try and sit up. He felt like he had been sent to hell and was trying to climb his way back up into purgatory.

Then Wendy shot Christophe in the leg, causing him to scream out so hard his throat must have torn. He felt like he was yelling so hard he might cough up his lungs. It hurt beyond anything Christophe had felt before. It hurt so much Christophe felt like he might black out.

He waited to be shot again, but after an eternity, there was nothing but silence and the pain. He slowly opened his eyes and found Wendy’s feet, using it as a mental anchor. It took another eternity to make sure he was still holding his shovel, but Wendy still didn’t move. Groaning, he struggled to his feet, feeling like he was on a cliff and about to fall any minute. Using his shovel like a cane, he stepped forward until he was face to face with Wendy. His leg screamed out each step, but something deep inside him kept him going. He felt like he was being buoyed up by something greater than he had ever felt.

She still didn’t do anything.

Raising his shovel, he tried to bludgeon Wendy with the handle, but she just grabbed it and wrenched from his hands. “You care so much,” She whispered, “Just look at you. Bleeding away with bullets in your body, but you still stand.”

“Someone has to take a stand…” Christophe coughed, “We… need something to aspire to.” He fell forwards and his head rested on Wendy’s shoulder. His face was tickled by Wendy’s black hair, and even now, he smiled at the contact the two of them had made.

“And what do you believe in?” Wendy said, “What have you found to fight for.”

“Fuck if I know,” Christophe croaked, “I would say… I’d say I’m fighting for Greg, but that won’t last.” He paused and felt like he was going to sleep. That would be nice. Maybe he’d see Greg again soon.

He had closed his eyes, but felt Wendy hold him up by his shoulders to keep him from falling. “That’s fine, Christophe. Just so long you’re fighting for something, then one day you’ll know what you’re fighting for.”

Christophe smiled, feeling more at peace than he had ever felt in his entire life. Not even when he had lay next to Greg in the Algerian desert and stared at the stars lining the sky like God’s signposts to heaven. He was bleeding out fast and Greg was dead. But as he rested in Wendy’s arms, he felt like he might actually want to die. He’d go to hell of course, since God was a vengeful bastard, but if he was going to hell, maybe Greg would be there too.

With his eyes still closed, he used his working hand to feel Wendy’s shoulder and trace it’s way up to Wendy’s cheek. Gathering what little strength God was taking from him, he laid his rough lips on Wendy’s. There was so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself. Wendy put one hand on his chest to steady him, and used her other to caress his lanky black hair.

As they kissed, Christophe’s working hand strayed to his pocket where his gun lay. They pulled apart, and Christophe opened his eyes. Maybe it was him hallucinating as he was about to enter God’s realm, but Wendy seemed to be crying. He saw himself reflected in her eyes, and, by God, he looked like  _shit_. “I’m sorry, Wendy.” He croaked, as he brought up the gun and shot her in the chest.

After that, he fell unconscious, hoping, begging, that he might find some solace in death.

 

* * *

 

God was really a lying cunt.

After all Christophe had went through, and after all he had done, he still wasn’t granted death.

He woke up in a shithole, and this time he didn’t think he was joking. He knew what shit smelled like, and he was smelling it now. He tried getting up, but the moment he tried moving his arm, his entire body got spasmed. Sweating, he slowly turned his head, trying to figure out what the fuck had happened.

“So you’re awake.”

Christophe looked up at the sky and saw a blond head appear in front of him. “Greg…”

“No, I’m not Greg.” The blondie looked away as he delivered the news. “Greg’s dead. Wendy killed him.”

“Then who the fuck are you?” Christophe would mourn for Greg later. This was still a time for answers.

“I’m Kenny McCormick.” The blondie said, “And I have something crazy to tell you.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t you. I know.” Christophe mumbled. “Wendy told me everything.”

“Wendy told you everything she knew,” Kenny said, “But she didn’t know everything. Haven’t you wondered why none of you can remember what happened last night?”

Christophe sat up eagerly but yelled out again as his entire right side tried to rip itself away from him. “You… You know what happened last night?”

“I do, but you might not believe me.”

“After all I’ve seen, there isn’t much I won’t believe.”

“I haven’t told anyone this before,” Kenny said, “I never thought I would, but telling you seems right.”

“Just fucking tell me.”

“I can’t die.”

“I didn’t think Greg could, but look what happened.” Christophe spat.

“No, I cannot die.” Kenny said, “If I die, I am brought back to life and no one remembers.”

“You’re saying that you died last night, which is why no one can remember what happened?” Christophe said in disbelief, “What kind of fucking story is that?”

“I can’t prove it to you because if I killed myself, you wouldn’t remember.” Kenny said, “But last night, I tried to contact you as you three walked out of that Burger King. I dropped down when Wendy wasn’t keeping her eye on you, but you knew who I was and shot at me before you drove off.”

Christophe narrowed his eyes at Kenny, but let him continue. “Wendy then chased me down and shot me, killing me, while you two drove away. That’s why you three were separated the next morning, and that’s why none of you can remember what actually happened.”

“So you’re telling me you’ve died over and over again, but no one can remember?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Fine, but why did you help me? And what happened after…” Christophe couldn’t bring himself to say it. To say it would be admitting to it.

“Wait, that’s it?” Kenny looked surprised. “You believe me?”

“No, I think you’re full of shit,” Christophe said, “Agree to disagree.” He winced at the bitter memory of that conversation with Wendy. “Anyways, there’s more important stuff I want to know. How did you find me?”

“I slapped a tracker on your car before I tried to contact you directly last night,” Kenny said, “After I was brought back to life this morning, I drove as fast as I could to Denver.”

“You can drive?”

“Died several times, but I got the hang of it.” Kenny was looking at Christophe intently, like he was waiting for Christophe to give him the finger and tell him to stop lying.

“Fine. You got to Denver. Then what?”

“I found you, Wendy, and Gregory lying in a huge pool of blood,” Kenny said, “I saw only you were alive, so I got you back into my car and drove off.”

“Did you leave traces? Did anyone else see us? Are the cops going to be coming?”

“I was careful,” Kenny said, “Besides, the cops in Denver are useless. They just spend their time killing black people.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Anyways, I hear your mom’s living in South Park too.”

“Holy fuck, did you tell her what happened?” Christophe tried to get up again, but was forced back down due to his wounds.

“Of course not,” Kenny said, “I patched up your wounds, I got good at experimenting on myself, and I made sure your wounds are clean. But you’re not getting any food from me, we’re short enough as it is.”

Christophe nodded. “Can I lie here until I’m able to walk?”

“Sure, just so long you don’t mind the smell of meth. You can even crash in my room if you want. It’s the only door with decoration.” Kenny said. With that, he walked away. It was only a minute after Kenny had shut the door and Christophe was sure no one was watching him that he cried. He cried for the loss of Wendy, for the loss of an illusion that she had built up and that he had loved. But he cried for the loss of Greg much more. No more would he be able to see Greg man up. He wouldn’t be able to see Greg grow some balls. He wouldn’t be able to tease Greg about being English, or get nagged by him to do his homework. He wouldn’t be able to have a friend anymore.

He cried until he felt himself shivering from the cold, then kept on crying. He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, but by the time his tears had dried, it was dark and snowing. He tried to get up, and this time was able to start crawling. His head throbbed like a gun was being fired in his head every second, but the pain in his arm was numb. Probably because of the cold, which wasn’t a good thing. He kept on crawling to the door, which he opened, then crawled up some dilapidated stairs that looked like had been built by a drunk kid on heroin. He was pretty sure he broke one. His hand had fallen right through the rotten wood, and he had to catch his breath. He heard some shouting in the background, but at this point, he couldn’t be bothered. If someone didn’t want him here, they could come and chuck him out themselves.

Eventually, through extreme pain and God’s will, he finally made it to Kenny’s room. He recognized it because of the pictures of hot blondes on the door. Completely retarded. None of those shallow bitches could ever hope to match Wendy. Gritting his teeth, Christophe pushed the thought of Wendy from his mind. He was in enough pain as it was.

He knocked on the door, and started crawling in when Kenny opened it. The boy tried to help him, but Christophe waved him away. He didn’t need, want, or deserve help. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Not many people do, considering it’s a shithole.”

“I’ve just been shot, it looks fine to me.”

Kenny laughed and lay down on the bed. “Well, tonight’s usually by self-indulgence time, but I’ll forego that due to present company.”

“If you want to jack off, go ahead,” Christophe said, “don’t give two shits what you do.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Kenny said, “It’d feel weird with someone else in the room.”

“Fine.” Christophe didn’t want to talk. Rolling over, he went back to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

He was awoken by Yardale’s agents. They came pounding in through the door and snatched Christophe up, ignoring his yells. Before Christophe knew what was happening, he was thrown into a car, trying to stop screaming from pain. He could limp now, but he couldn’t be thrown around like some rotten apple core.

“Why have you gone out of contact?” The agent in front of him asked. He had a suit on that complimented his fat neck and round face. “Why have you not reported?”

“Because I was shot and wasn’t able to make a call,” Christophe grumbled, “Besides, I was never the one to contact you.”

“Your partner’s death, while regrettable, is no excuse.”

Christophe would have tried to punch the man if he was able. But he was too tired and worn out to care that Greg’s death was now an excuse to his  _daddy’s_ servants. Greg was just an inconvenience. All Wendy, Greg and Christophe had fought for amounted to nothing. Greg’s  _daddy_  would no doubt have some other servant take the places of the ones Wendy had killed, and the world would keep turning.

Fuck God. Fuck him and his negligence. Why did people as good and innocent as Greg die when people like his dad prospered. When Christophe died, he’d claw his way down to the depths of hell so he’d be able to kick God in the ass.

The agent kept on talking, and Christophe supposed it would be best to listen. “We would like a report on what happened. Has the threat been eliminated?”

“Yeah, no one else will be dying.” Christophe said, “Wendy was the killer, and when she found out we knew, she tried to kill both of us.”

“And who was the child you were staying with?”

“An old friend of Greg’s.” Christophe said. “He was just around in case we needed to run from Wendy. He doesn’t know anything.”

The agents looked at each other before nodding. “We’ll make sure charges aren’t held against you, courtesy of your years of service. Your mother has been told your scholarship has been withdrawn. You are hereby discharged from Mr. Yardale’s service. If you mention-“

“Yeah, yeah, don’t say anything or I die.” Christophe said, “I know.  Can I go now?” The car was slowly trundling across South Park, and Christophe wasn’t surprised to see the stupid mountain town hadn’t changed in five years. There was even an internet café, even though everyone had internet nowadays. The agent nodded at the driver, and the door opened. Well, fuck them. Apparantly it was too much trouble to drive him back to Kenny’s house.  But maybe it was for the best that Christophe didn’t stay at the kid’s house for too long. Groaning, he limped out of the car, and started shuffling back to his mother’s place.

It took a month for him to be able to run around without much trouble, though he still ended up reopening it once every other day. His mother had accepted his return with a lot of fuss, but didn’t ask too many questions. He had been given the choice to stay away from school for the first month, but Christophe found himself staring at the ceiling all too often, replaying the fateful scene that morning. After waking from another daydream, he had asked to try and go back to school.

What did he fight for? What had he fought for? Did he still want to continue fighting? Questions like that and memories of Greg had gone around and around his head until he wanted to scream. But screams would bring his mother upstairs, so he kept quiet.

He didn’t know what Greg’s  _daddy_  had told his mother, but she wasn’t surprised to learn that he hadn’t done any schoolwork since he was nine, and agreed to have him held back in primary until he caught up. In some ways, Christophe was thankful. It was so boring it dulled his mind. Learning about fractions, long division, metaphors, similes, the declaration of independence, and the states of the almighty United States of America. He only thought about the stupid teachers in front of him, and never thought of Greg or Wendy. His past life felt like a dream, and he was happy to keep it that way. Friends that died in dreams weren't real. 

His mother was so pleased that he was doing well in classes. He didn’t care that the other kids laughed at him, that the desk was too small for him, that he spent his days lounging in the primary school and smoking. He just didn’t seem to care anymore.

_What do you fight for?_

Nothing. He thought about it a lot, but didn’t know what he had struggled for that morning. He didn’t know jack shit. That was why he had wanted to die that day he kissed Wendy. He shuddered. What had he been thinking when he had kissed that stupid bitch? It was probably the blood loss. Definitely blood loss. But without Greg, without Wendy, he was lost.

The weeks passed, and one day, when he had started learning among eleven year olds instead of nine and ten year olds, he noticed one of them running around with ecstasy. He knew what it looked like, of course, he knew what most drugs looked like. What he wanted to know was where some fucking eleven year old had gotten the tools to destroy his own life.

He had always had good hearing, and it hadn’t gone away. He walked over to another wall, where he was within hearing distance of the dumbass kid. He heard that the kid had stolen some from his brother. He tried to give it to some brown-haired girl, but she gave him the finger and walked off. At least she had some spine, but she’d never live up to the bitch in pink. That was a nice name, wasn’t it? Rolled off the tongue easily after leaving a bitter taste, sort of like blood. If he remembered correctly, the girl’s name was Karen. But Christophe never cared much about his classmates, so he wasn’t sure.

Something Christophe did care about was a kid deliberately wasting a life God gave him because he was too fucking stupid. He memorized the kid’s name, Fosse, and paid the fucker’s brother a visit that night.

It was something he hadn’t done in a while, and Christophe felt his heart lift slightly. This was what he had been trained to do, and this was what made him happy. He was surprised at how quickly old habits came back to him. He had thought going back into the world of infiltration would hurt, but it made him feel alive again. He easily clambered up and infiltrated the boy’s home, then scared the name of the dealer out of the kid. He squealed the moment Christophe got his knife out, and within moments, Christophe was jogging to where the dealer could be caught.

All of a sudden, he was tackled to the side and there was a man on top of him. Shit, had he been so rusty already? He had heard nothing. The man must have jumped at him from above. They struggled for a bit, and Christophe saw the fucker was wearing a facemask. Smart. Smarter than Christophe. Fuck, he was out of practice. Christophe tried to knee the guy on top, but his attacker was experienced, and he only kneed a hardened thigh.

“You made a mistake the minute you tried to deal drugs to eleven year olds, motherfucker.” A deep voice came near Christophe’s ear. It was weird and twisted, like some stupid Batman impression, but Christophe recognized it immediately. “Kenny McCormick? What the fuck are you doing?”

Instantly Kenny got off Christophe. His voice was still very distinct, and people still talked about his accent behind his back. Well, fuck them and their dinky laptops with their useless Facebook and Twitter.

“Christophe, what are you doing here?”

“Trying to catch some drug dealer.”

“Same, my sister told me about it, and I decided to pay them a visit.”

Christophe got up and dusted himself off. “Well, I think we missed the fucker. Even a shithead like him would have heard the noise you made.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. He’s a small-timer, and he’ll be back next week.” Kenny took off his mask and looked at Christophe. “How’ve you been?”

“Like shit.” Christophe said, “So you really dress up in your thong and try to fight crime, huh? Just like when you were a little kiddy.”

“Yup. When I’m not trying to stop Professor Chaos.”

“What the fuck.”

“It’s a long story, don’t ask.” Kenny looked at the ground, then said, “I still have your shovel, you know. I took it that morning. I also took Wendy’s body.”

“You what?” Christophe grabbed Kenny by the shoulders. “What the  _fuck_ did you do that for?”

“She was my friend, despite everything she did,” Kenny said, “I didn’t want her getting dumped as a piece of evidence.” Christophe glared at Kenny before shoving him back. “Where did you bury her?”

“Outside my back yard,” Kenny said, “I’d actually just finished when you woke up that day.”

“Can I…” Christophe didn’t want to say it. He still didn’t know what he had felt with Wendy.

“Of course you can,” Kenny said, “Wanna go now?”

Christophe nodded, and the two of them set off. It was almost summer now, and Christophe was walking without a jacket for the first time since he had come back to South Park. It was almost bearable, actually. Christophe wasn’t shivering every night in his room, and he didn’t have to put up with God dumping his dandruff all over the town. Shoveling it was a bitch. He realized that he hadn’t done any real shoveling in months. He’d been ordinary. And wasn’t that nice and peaceful.

Neither of them talked until they reached Kenny’s house, where more shouting could be heard. Kenny skirted around the house and into the back yard. Christophe hadn’t paid any attention to it during his recovery, but Kenny hadn’t been joking about that meth lab. Walking past that, he saw a cross driven into the ground, with Wendy’s pink beret perched on the top.

Christophe knelt down on the ground and bowed his head, letting himself recall what Wendy had felt like as he had been bleeding in her arms. How he had kissed her then killed her. Because his need for revenge outweighed his love for Wendy. Fuck that romantic bullshit, this wasn’t some unintelligible poem with deep meaning. It had just been hormones and Wendy’s charm. Wendy had never shown any interest in him, that was for sure.

More importantly, why had Wendy spared him? _Just so long you’re fighting for something, then one day you’ll know what you’re fighting for._ Wendy had seen that Christophe had something to fight for, and couldn’t bear to kill him. She thought he was a kindred soul, and maybe he was. Maybe Wendy wanted him to carry on a legacy, like Greg’s _daddy_ wanted Greg to carry on his own legacy of crime. But the day Christophe continued her fucked up legacy was the day Greg continued his dear _daddy’s_. It would never happen, because Greg was dead.

Sometimes Christophe felt dead as well.

But it was the present that mattered, not the past. Christophe didn’t know why Wendy had spared him, or whether she had expected Christophe to kill her. She was smart enough to fool both him and Greg, so why the fuck hadn’t she seen the gun coming? Why the _fuck_ hadn’t she just killed him?

No. The intentions could to hell and burn while God laughed at them. It was the results that mattered, and the intentions meant as much as a bloodstain in a massacre. Christophe had to look forward.

He knelt there for a while before Kenny came up to him. “You know, you’ve obviously trained for this sort of thing before, haven’t you.”

“No shit.”

“Want to fight crime with me?”

Christophe didn’t say anything. He was thinking. Did he want to dive back into that world of intrigue and loss again? He didn’t even know what he fought for, no, fuck that, he didn’t even fight. He had lain back down like a lazy English friend he once knew, and didn’t bother to strive towards something.

Well, fuck that. Fuck that apathy, and fuck that obedience. Fuck Wendy too, because she had saved him. She had given him something to fight for, even if Christophe didn’t know what that was. “Sure. Just so long I need to dress up like some kiddie in preschool.”

“Alright, then.” Kenny said, “I’ll contact you whenever something comes up.”

Christophe got up, noticing for the first time that his shovel had been used as the main spar of the cross. The head of the shovel was completely buried in the soil, but Christophe still recognized it. He tugged it out of the ground, leaving a deep gouge where Wendy’s body lay.

He knelt down, kissed the earth, slung his shovel over his back once again, then followed Kenny back into the fray. And maybe, just maybe, after fighting for some time, he’d find out what he had been fighting for the whole time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that. It was written for TheShadowsWhisper in a Secret Santa event organized by Ukaisha. Please tell me what you think, I always appreciate feedback.


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